


Chase The Thoughts That Multiply

by deathishauntedbyhumans



Series: Nightmares [3]
Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Gen, Mental Health Issues, Past, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sibling Bonding, Wordcount: 1.000-3.000, everyone has ptsd bc sometimes that’s how it be
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-08
Updated: 2019-04-08
Packaged: 2020-01-07 00:26:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18399413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deathishauntedbyhumans/pseuds/deathishauntedbyhumans
Summary: After they talk to Dipper about his PTSD, the grunkles realise that there’s another conversation that needs to be had.





	Chase The Thoughts That Multiply

**Author's Note:**

> Or, y’know, the one where Grunkle Stan has PTSD. 
> 
> Title comes from the song _Suck A Lemon_ by moe.

“What was that?” Ford asks, the second the children’s faces are no longer staring desperately at them from the laptop on the table. He doesn’t snap, not quite, but he definitely doesn’t sound happy.

Makes a lotta sense. It’s not like Stan’s happy, either.

“Sounds like the kid’s got a rough time ahead of him,” Stan says tiredly, plucking up his hands from Ford’s shoulders. He moves to step aside, avoiding Ford’s gaze in the reflection of the screen as much as he’s avoiding the question, but Ford is quicker than he accounts for. There’s a hand on his wrist before he can successfully slither away to his bunk, and Stan just barely holds in a sigh as Ford holds him fast.

Ford gives a little tug, just enough to be pointed. “Don’t play dumb with me, Stanley.” He sounds tired, too. “We both know I wasn’t talking about Dipper.”

Stan lets Ford’s searching gaze meet his own, briefly, and whatever Ford sees must match up to the gears turning in that big brain of his, because his grip on Stan’s wrist goes slack. Stan holds his gaze just a second longer.

And then he turns, averting his eyes down low, and crosses the small, creaky room to sink down onto his bed.

“Stan…” Ford sounds, as he so often does when they diverge from the path of the scientific into more emotional territory, at a loss for words. Sometimes, it’s easier to be frustrated by it, but most of the time, Stan _gets_ it.

For two brothers who spent their entire childhoods joined at the hip, they managed to grow rather rapidly into two old men with no idea how to bridge the gaps between them.

Stan kicks off his slippers and lies down, mostly so he can look into the wooden slats of the low cabin ceiling instead of into Ford’s face. “Don’t get mushy on me, Sixer. I ain’t dead yet.”

Ford doesn’t respond, not verbally, but the air is thick. He’s _listening,_ Stan knows from experience. Ford’s waiting and listening, because he doesn’t have anything he knows how to say.

“Clinical diagnosis came through when I was… twenty-four?” Stan’s not entirely sure, anymore— some of his younger years tend to blur together in his head, now. He blames old age.

Oh, and the whole memory-eraser debacle probably hadn’t helped, either.

“Something like that,” he continues. A lump, uncomfortable and heavy, has appeared in his throat, but it’s not something Stan isn’t used to. Talkin’ about any of this stuff… It ain’t easy. It never has been, and baring his soul to _Ford_ after all these years is always an extra slice of challenge pie. “I found a card for some therapist on the street advertising five free sessions and figured ‘what the hell?’ and ended up going to two of them before I had to split. It was in… Michigan? Minnesota? Eh. One of those ‘M’ states.” Stan waves a hand vaguely, and he doesn’t have to look over to know that Ford is watching him with rapt attention. His eyes are probably wide behind his glasses, the way he gets when he’s studying some particularly confounding anomaly. “Ten minutes into the very first meeting, she tells me I’ve got PTSD stemming from ‘intense abandonment issues,’ among other things.” He snorts. “I thought she was full’ve it. Told her so, too. She just kept talkin’ to me, though.”

Stan trails off, lost in a memory, so he’s a little startled when Ford finally says, “And?” like he’s expecting something more.

“And?” Stan repeats, confused. He shakes his head, pillow rustling against his hair. “And nothin’. That was it.”

There’s the sound of the laptop closing, and then a _creak creak creak_ that means Ford is crossing the room. Whether he’s projecting his movement or not, Stan knows the exact moment he’s going to sit down and—

“That can’t be it.” Yep. There it is. Ford sinks down gingerly on the edge of the bed, so Stan huffs what might be a laugh and might be a sigh —even _he’s_ not sure what he’s going for— and lets his head loll to the side so he can meet Ford’s eyes. Just like he’d thought, they’re as wide as saucers behind the thin glass of his glasses. Ford’s hand lifts, hovers in the air for a moment, and then slowly drops back onto the bed.

Stan reaches out anyways, because he can’t help but take pity on Ford’s rather pathetic attempt at trying to figure out how to comfort him. He pats Ford’s leg, a little awkwardly from his position, and shakes his head again.

“No, that’s… pretty much it,” Stan repeats, not unkindly. Ford knocks his knuckles against the knuckles of Stan’s hand, more as a reassurance than a hold, it seems. “I mean, havin’ that was better than nothin’. It makes sense, y’know? And it’s made more sense as the years go by. I’ve got problems, Sixer.” He pauses, because he feels Ford’s fingers twitch against his own, and then presses on when nothing else changes. “I’ve got problems. But that doesn’t make me broken. It might make me a little stupid, sometimes—“

“Stanley, you’re not—“

Stan _does_ huff a laugh, this time. “Shut it, you. I’m a grown-ass man. I can call myself a little stupid if I wanna.” It’s only when Ford closes his mouth into a thin line —unhappy, but letting Stan have his piece— that Stan continues. “I’ve got issues in my head, but so does everybody else. I’ve made it work. Sometimes it took days, or years, but I made it work.” He falls quiet, but the air isn’t quite clear, so Ford doesn’t speak. “Dipper’ll make it work, too,” he finishes softly.

Ford draws his hand back slowly. “I’m— I’m... so sorry, Stanley.” There’s a thinly-veiled surge of emotion there, buried just beneath the surface, and Stan _knows_ it’ll crack if he presses the issue. He’s not sure it _needs_ to crack, though. Not now, at least.

This time, it’s Stan who sticks a hand out and takes Ford by the wrist to stop him. “Sixer, look at me,” he says, and Ford does so immediately, like the order is too much of a compulsion for him to resist. Stan stares into his eyes, widening his own. “I’m _fine._ Look at me. I’ve lived with this for years and I’m _okay._ Whatever guilt you’re feeling?” The wrist Stan is holding jerks in surprise, but Stan holds fast. “You don’t need to hold onto it. We’ve all got issues in our heads, alright? Mine are just different than yours.”

Ford’s gaze is something bordering desperation as he searches Stan’s own, and Stan lets him look. It’s a pregnant, poignant moment, with a silence broken only by the creaking of wood around them and the gentle sound of waves hitting the side of their boat that never quite goes away.

And then Ford nods, swallowing hard. There are tears in his eyes, Stan notes, but they don’t fall, so Stan says nothing about them.

“I’m going to… do some research,” Ford says, and Stan relaxes his grip and lets his brother escape. He pretends he doesn’t notice the concern in Ford’s gaze before he slips out of their bedroom.

And he pretends he doesn’t know that Ford isn’t going up top to research anomalies, either.

**Author's Note:**

> ~~I’m not promising any more to this series but I have at least one idea...~~
> 
> Kudos/comments are love! Come scream at me on tumblr @deathishauntedbyhumans.


End file.
